When Alice first laid eyes on Circe, it was from the velvet-draped comfort of her carriage.
The girl stood at the edge of the woods, sunlight catching in her hair like fire through glass. There was a fragile beauty to her, one that seemed untouched by the world's cruelty, even as whispers called her cursed.
Unlike Circe, who was shunned and cast out for her magic, Alice had been spared such disgrace. Adopted young into a wealthy household, she had been taught the language of nobles: how to smile, how to speak, how to never let the mask slip. And when she discovered her strange gift, that ability to make objects bend to her will without so much as lifting a finger, Alice had hidden it quickly. To be different was to be despised, and Alice had learned early that survival meant sameness.
She lived with her secret quietly, never honing her ability, yet never resenting it either. It was simply there, like a shadow at her side. Harmless, so long as she kept it unseen.
